The Other You

She’s in bed
it’s 10:00 pm, the series in the background
provided her with comfort noise
it’s odd, she always needs sound
not traffic sounds, but music,
conversation, brightness, light

She’s in shorts, in her room
facing a wall, with a painting
it’s not straight, but her body is too weak
to get up and fix it, yet it’s fucking with her brain

Her legs are exposed
her skin is happy, as the fan blows
chilly breezes across from them
lacing them with a coat of cold

Her legs are crossed, as if they missed one another
those long winter months, kept them covered
hidden from each other

She’s sitting on her bed
back relaxed on the mountain of pillows
that separated her from the wall
she’s sitting, lethargic
yet at peace

She’s enjoying her aloneness
it’s solitude, not loneliness
please don’t confuse
she picked up her wine cup
ornamented with droplets of humidity
she sipped it, licked her lips after she’s done

She’s not paying attention to what’s
playing on television, even though her eyes
are fixated on the screen,

She’s sitting on the bed, legs crossed, body stretched
back straight, fan on, painting in front, eyes on television
but mind somewhere else

Electricity went out!
“That’s great” she sarcastically uttered
she decided to light a cigarette,
she took one out of her crumpled pack
“PHEW, it’s not broken” she sighed in relief

As she sparked her lighter
she saw a shadow, in front of her
she took a short breath
counted to 3, then lit that flame again

With her hand shaking,
she could see the borders of the shadow
with anxiety seeping in, she moved her flame around
she could see her surroundings intact
but that shadow was sitting there, not moving
looking back,

it said nothing, it did not even flinch
after a second or two, she could see it
standing up and coming closer
her hand got numb, the light went off, dropping the lighter
she could feel the shadow against her

it embraced her,
she was stiff with fear,
she managed to grab her phone
she put the light on

Her walls were covered with writings
she squinted her eyes, since her glasses were no where to be found

it was her writing, or writings for that matter


she went on reading and remembering
each and every sentence, every quote
every word,

the writing was lit
it glowed,

the walls were covered from ceiling to floor
all four walls

She wanted to move but couldn’t

the shadow still hugged her, making her motionless

cigarette went out, she noticed there no smoke in the room
the room lit with words

She heard something, she couldn’t make up what it was
it felt like her mind was conversing with her

“you have a world out there
scribble those thoughts on walls
floors, ceilings, engrave them on humans
tattoo them on rebels
voice them across oceans and skies”

She felt as if she was drugged
she was numb, her mind was racing
so were her heartbeats

“who the fuck are you?
who is this?” she asked frantically

Electricity came back

she saw her wine cup was done
a pencil in hand and papers of random scribbles

“Could it be
that the writer in
me has a world
of her own?”

logan by oil Mcavoy


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